Target Practice
by schizometriclanguage
Summary: That minor incident at Gotham University, the one with the gun, the one that was actually just a demonstration, but turned into an accident of sorts. Touchstones to storylines from the comics.


Jonathan peered into the bulky man's eyes, thinking of the bullies in high school that'd attempted to make his life hell. This one was no older or younger than himself, but that didn't change the animosity that radiated off of him.

_For fuck's sakes, I'm a _professor_, _he thought, marvelling at the young man's audacity. Dover Green; if he did anything and Jonathan took any distaste too it, Jonathan knew for a fact that _he _could make the kid's life a tuition-sucking, parent-disappointing hell. He'd learned to use words better than anyone he knew, and had several other of the professors under his thumb, equating to at least three classes that he knew the kid to be in. A kid, because that's where his mind was. Jonathan had no issue belittling him.

"Freaky little scarecrow, fag! Why don't you get a fucking stick and shove it up your fucking ass, you little fag! Huh?"

Jonathan frowned. He'd always thought that if you were going to insult someone, you should at least do it properly instead of reaching of for the quickest thing that came to mind that'd been said in the mouths of millions of others already. But the "Scarecrow" mention did rub a bit, he had to admit; somehow that'd followed him from the high school, which being approximately eight years ago was tad impressive. He knew that it was what the students called him; he didn't like it.

Jonathan felt the impact of his body hitting the locker through his stomach mid-thought, and laughed as he crumpled to the floor wondering how he'd so easily forgotten to pay note to what was happening. It was hard to laugh with the wind knocked out of you though, and it came out more as an asthmatic gasping. But that passed, and the boy caught on soon enough that he was being laughed at.

"What you laughing for, faggot?"

Jonathan wondered when he'd given any inclination towards being a homosexual, but that thought to was punctuated by a swift kick to his side and he felt a rib break.

"What _are_ you laughing for," Jonathan corrected, the cheek not yet beat out of him. This kid couldn't take that, not when Jonathan could call several occasions upon which things much worse had been done to him.

"You know," Jonathan said conversationally as he pushed his body up against a locker for support, "If you'd just _studied_ for that test, like I warned you, we wouldn't be having this 'conversation'."

That was never the right thing to say, but Jonathan could never resist, some inkling of madness setting his lips into movement before he really thought it over; not that thinking it over would have made a difference. He blacked out after that comment. When he woke up it seemed that someone had taken him to the infirmary, and he knew that he'd have his revenge.

* * *

"Fear. Everyone has one, and anyone who denies it, well, that usually gets the best of them," Jonathan began. He thought about the revolver in his briefcase, how it's weight felt comfortable in his hands. Scarecrow or not, he could definitely aim and shot better than anyone here would give him credit for despite the crude machines weight. His eyes flicked to Dover Green who sat in the second row, situated on his left. That's where the numbskull athlete's sat, burning through his parent's money; he was really no different from a majority of the students at the whole of the university. The corruption of the city had even run up through it's education system. It wouldn't have been easier to just print off the degrees at this point.

Presently, Green was staring at him, _glowering_. Even if he was going to graduate from this university no matter what Jonathan did to him, it still got him to be humiliated by a "freaky little scarecrow fag". The truth however, was that Jonathan had given him very little attention, simply handing back the marks he'd deserved with the same fashion of comments he gave to everyone else. But now he'd made himself special, he'd stepped out of the fog that were his students and practically painted a mark on himself for target practice.

"To illustrate my point, I've brought in something a little special today," Jonathan continued, going back behind his desk and opening his briefcase, catching a quick glimpse at his scarecrow mask. He heard the stirrings as he presented a full view to the class. He wasn't exactly known for conventional teaching, but it was amusing to know that he could still surprise them with the revolver he'd casually held out in front of him for everyone to see. It black lustre caught the light like a Christmas ornament. He'd cleaned it up special just for the occasion.

"So, if everyone would kindly stand up from their chairs, I'd like to start a little demonstration."

Jonathan began to climb up the stairs of the theatre.

"As we've studied, fear is developed through several different faucets; conditioning, physiological preparedness, and social norms and values. This revolver is loaded. Who's afraid, raise their hand."

Half of the class easily admitted their fear.

"Those with raised hands, please sit down."

Less than half the class took their seats now that they were being more conspicuously identified; social norms. He tucked the detail away for his report later. Also of interest, he was not perturbed, but disappointed that he'd already so easily convinced much of the class that he was capable of pulling the trigger without guilt. His mind quickly skimmed over for reasons that he might have given them for this, but chalked it up to his chipper attitude towards the demonstration.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jonathan saw that Dover Green hadn't taken his seat, warily watching him; preparedness. In his hand, he held the conditioning tool. He continued to walk up and down the lecture hall, feeling the air thicken. He stopped and held the gun to the temple of one of the boys. A good kid; he couldn't remember his name.

"Who's afraid?"

Another large fraction of the class sat down. He pressed the gun against the boys head who was already half-way to his seat, unsure of what he was meant to do and compliantly completed the remaining distance. A good kid.

"How do we even know that it's loaded?"

Jonathan rounded and Green fully emerged from his peripherals. Several more students took their seats, possibly having heard from Green himself what had happened the other day. There only stood him and a few of his cronies, now and a small group dispersed on the edges who weren't close enough to the danger to know any better.

"Yeah, and you wouldn't actually shot us, we're students!" Another one piped up, standing again from his seat.

Jonathan turned his attention to the kid, taking several swift steps towards him and leaning over top him with a one hand steadying him on the desk, the other holding the gun underneath his chin.

"What if this is a break down? What if I suffer from anthropophobia? Or social anxiety disorder? Do I looked flushed? Could be early stages and I haven't gotten t-to the st-stuttering."

It was that cruel, mocking voice again, speaking for him so pointedly the way he needed it to when it came to inducing fear into people. The boy launched out at him, but with the desk made him too slow, and Jonathan leaned back to resume his rounds around the hall. _Slowly, slowly, very slowly, goes the garden snail_, Jonathan thought cheerily. Fear was a _process_ that required _a good measure of time._

"That was the 'cornered rat' reaction," he lectured, remembering that it was still class time, "Who's afraid?"

This time, everyone sat down, leaving only Dover Green. Just as he'd suspected this would go.

"Not afraid, Mr. Green?"

"No."

"You're sweating, I can tell from here," Jonathan moved closer to continue his examination, "Pupils dilated, brows drawn together, all classic indicators, and--"

He slammed a hand down onto the desk between them and Green started violently.

"And your muscles are set tight."

Jonathan hoisted himself up and stood atop the desk, looking down at Green patiently, a thin smile spread over his lips. He could feel it, the exposure, the opportunity he was giving Green to knock him over; the fear. But he could control his fear when it came to this. He rarely took things personally, and this was no different. This was personal only in the sense that it brought fear to _himself. _There was nothing like a good scare, a little something to put you on the edge, keep you on your toes.

"You won't do it," Green half-ordered, seething.

"I won't?" Jonathan feigned puzzlement, "Why? Because your parents are wealthy? Because you're stronger than me? Because they'll put me in prison? Or Arkham?"

"You won't."

Jonathan laughed, and Green cringed. Jonathan felt maybe he was being a bit unfair, towering over the boy like this and lowered himself down and brushed off the boy's binder so that he could sit on the desk more comfortably. He rested his elbows casually on his knees, legs swung over the edge and the revolver still in his hands, pointedly aimed at Green's genitals. Peering upwards now, Jonathan waited for Green to say something; maybe he'd be more courageous under this arrangement.

"You're afraid. That's okay, Mr. Green, just because you're afraid doesn't mean that you can't be courageous. Isn't that the whole point of courage, overcoming fear? Or perhaps I'm misreading, and you're not worried about courage, and you're concerned about being humiliated right now. Class, what do you think?"

No one answered, unsure if this was a class anymore. That was the problem with these kids, they always thought that you only learned in the confines of classroom with traditional classroom material. They'd just come for the lecture.. They hadn't learned to _adapt_ and he hadn't the ideals to encourage him to teach them that.

"You fucking scarecrow," Green muttered. He didn't look at Jonathan, eyes instead darting out for help. A corner of Jonathan's smile flicked downwards, betraying him. Green saw it and grinned, thinking that he'd found a point of leverage.

"You fucking scarecrow," he repeated more loudly so that the class could hear, "You _fucking, faggot, scarecrow."_

Just say it again, Jonathan thought, just keep calling that name. If he called it to many times, there would just be no stopping it.

Finding amusement again, Jonathan slid off the desk and made himself to close for Green's comfort, daring him to continue. Green backed up, but bumped against the tiered desk behind him. Following, Jonathan leaned against Green languidly, bringing up the revolver between them and setting it in point to the boy's throat.

"There's nothing new I'm hearing from your name-calling," Jonathan said lazily, pulling back the hammer, "You're just as boring when you're frightened."

_Just like in the movies,_ the voice commented with poignancy, Jonathan watching distantly as the hammer snapped back into place.

Green's mouth drew horizontally, the look of fear permeating his every reaction. He didn't know whether to sit or stand, but that didn't matter any more because Professor Crane wasn't really teaching class anymore. He was continuing his studies.

Jonathan noted Green's reactions. It didn't matter how it was, they all ended up the same. If anything though, this wasn't the best example of the kind of fear Jonathan was after; it was diluted by humiliation. It didn't matter who Green was, Green had only given him a reason. He hardly ever remembered anyone's name unless he found them interesting or if they gave him a reason to. The tight bandaging underneath his shirt and jacket over his ribs definitely felt like a good reason.

No one beat him without retribution; it was a power issue. With his body structure long, lanky and probably incapable of doing him any good in unsophisticated brawls and practiced technique alike, he always remembered that it was important to assert who was in control. He had no shame in admitting that he liked control; some people did, but Jonathan Crane had ambitions, and to fulfill those, he needed control. He heard the argument that it made him no better than those who were trying to oppress him; that was fine, because he never claimed to be any different.

"You won't do it," Green said again. He was turning it into a prayer now, Jonathan realized, his attention swimming in the euphoria that the stench of fear brought him. He refocused, eyes sharpening into Green's again.

"Of course not. Relax," Jonathan assured, pressing his elbows into Green's chest to propel him back off him. He heard Green let out a sigh, and took several steps to exit the row of seats but stopped as he reached the aisle and turned to watch Green's muscles relax and his eyes reduce themselves from the angry bulge they'd spread open too. _Quickly, quickly, very quickly, runs the little mouse,_ Jonathan thought. He aimed low and pulled the trigger, but Green started to move at just the inopportune moment, stepping into the shot.

Well, damn.

Several screams went out, and Green fell to the floor and Jonathan sighed. He hadn't actually meant to hit him. But it was time to clean out his desk now. He'd have to find new facilities to continue his studies. There was the money factor. He knew where this would all lead, but maintained his composure. He had some interesting new material, if anything.

"Someone please go get the medic?" Jonathan asked calmly. When no one answered he thrust his hands in the air at their incompetence to act, and went out to get one himself. Green was now shouting in agony.

"You'll live, Mr. Green, stop whining," Jonathan remarked lightly, peering back in as he was halfway through the door to the mass of students now crowding Green uselessly trying to help.

He was sure that he identified a certain skip in his step as he went down the hallways to the fetch the medic, not remembering such fun since Squires and Griggs.

* * *

After cleaning up the mess he'd made of his University tenure, and it had been a bit of a mess, Jonathan knew that he wouldn't find another job like that after his little spot of theatrics. Maybe if he hadn't _accidentally_ (a point that he pressed but they still missed) shot the kid in the leg, it'd have been different; but something like that didn't look to impressive on a resume and the parents weren't to pleased either. Which was silly, because their children were grown up enough (or at least they should have been) to take care of themselves. So, he got some money together and propelled into his own research. Unfortunately, this meant that now the police were after him given how he'd acquired the money. Fortunately, it put his name in with other venues seeing as he wasn't thick enough to rob certain banks.

The first venue was with the Mob. They installed him as a resident psychiatrist at Arkham (among other incentives) in exchange for testimony in court to attest that certain criminals actually only did it because of paranoia, or voices, or daddy touched them when they were little, or…whatever brand of madness they could get away with. Whatever brand he could teach them. With the sort of protection the Mob gave him, he didn't have to worry about work for very long and was once again injected back into the daylight society while operating for the dark.

The second venue, came in a package containing a blue flower, from a man calling himself Ra's al Ghul.

Jonathan had to try the flower's properties for himself, but hadn't expected it to happen so quickly, or so subtly. Most toxins took a trigger to set off a bad 'trip', but this one started immediately; dark flashes just out of the corner of his eyes, and he'd turned trying to see what it was, again and again, feeling his heart rate beginning to race and thud against the blood in his ears. And he could _hear_ it all, the rustling of wings, the scratches of claws on the floor of his well sealed loft. Wildly, he tried to imagine how'd they gotten in before remembering that these were he effects of the vapour off the flower.

And then one fully manifested crow swooped down overtop him and he raised his arms to black to the claws and pecking, feeling it tear at his skin. _What had the flower done to him?_ He knew it was the flower, but panicked in spite of himself. They'd told him how it'd be, but he'd never heard of them before, and when they told him where they were a sect from Tibet, he didn't put much faith in the flower, attributing it to a weapon the equivalent of an overblown homeopathic remedy that was more hocus pocus than fact. He'd been wrong before and wasn't too proud to admit that. That's what science was, countless failures before a victory.

One sampling of the flower hadn't been enough, and he tried it several more times so that he could have a better grasp of it's effects so that he could identify and compare them as he tested it in others. Each time was a nightmare, but in the name of _science,_ he endured.

Until, he'd taken too much, trying to compensate to his bodies mounting resistance to it. It wasn't a severe overdose, not something that'd kill him. He knew that even as it was happening, but despite the reason and logic that he held so dear desperately trying to cope with the effects of the drug, he felt himself paralyzed with fear as he felt himself being overwhelmed by the onslaught of the little black monsters. They crawled over his skin, little claws puncturing his clothes and dragging on his skin pressing in as they became trapped underneath the weight of the others. Uselessly, he shouted for them to get off, settling wholly into the delusion as though it were real. It certainly felt real.

Something new presented that he'd never found in any of his patients. Hooded, with a noose around his neck, a tall lanky figure made his appearance and began thrusting the birds away, off of him. He couldn't fully see the manifestation at first, only catching glimpses, but it'd been easy enough to piece together from familiarity.

Scarecrow.

Jonathan watched as Scarecrow wrapped his hands around the throats of the birds he caught and snapped their necks, only to listlessly toss them aside, little carcasses drawing in the others as they smelt a meal. Stupid things, Jonathan thought, less frightened now that Scarecrow was taking care of it. His heart hadn't slowed yet, and the birds kept coming, but watching it being _dealt_ with made it bearable. And within a few hours, the damned carrion beasts lessened in their ferocity and faded away.

Scarecrow didn't.

When he was done, the little black bodies disappeared back into the phobia where they'd come, Scarecrow approached him and held out a hand. Realizing that he'd been on the floor, cowering for all that it was worth, Jonathan took it without question. Standing, he brushed himself off and without hesitation reached out for the noose around Scarecrow's neck and began to pull it off over his head. It revealed a mirror image; the same lips, the same cheekbones, and the same eyes that he always ended at when he looked in the mirror, looking as though they were still trying to decide if life was worth being awake for.

"Where did you come from?" Jonathan asked, though he was unsure if he'd used the right phrasing. He could guess that Scarecrow was simply a part of him he imagined to have grown over the years and that the flower had simply triggered a split. But then, he must have been real; the birds had gone, but he hadn't.

The answer came clear in his mind, but simultaneously distant,

_I've been here all along._


End file.
